


The Stations

by invisibledeity



Series: God Complex [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abuse, Dissociation, M/M, PTSD, Self Harm, Trauma Recovery, biblical allegory, depersonalisation, expect 14 chapters, implied promptis at the start, references to rape, references to violence, self-medicating with alcohol, they are small chapters though, threat of nonconsensual touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 06:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: `They say he lives within me, they say for me he died- and now I hear his footsteps almost every night.`The Way of the Cross begins after Prompto's been taken down from the damn thing.A recovery fic of sorts that spans the gap from Prompto's rescue to the bros return to Lucis.





	1. I. STAZIONE: Condannato

**Author's Note:**

> You should all listen to the title song by The Gutter Twins, it's bloody excellent.
> 
> Anyway, this has been kicking around in my head since the start of the year.
> 
> And again, it probably won't make much sense without reading the rest of the series, but if you don't want to delve into that particular flavour of heavy subjects, just assume It Was Bad.

  

Prompto wakes up with his mouth full of metal and he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe. The panic has his heart hammering against his ribcage like the kickback from a gun.

            A little jolt, and as fingers twist into the coarse blankets, he realises where he is, and he starts to breathe again. He’s flat against the sheets in the little cot in the dormitory. Still Zegnautus Keep. But not on the ground. Not pressed against a frame. Not suspended, restrained, held down.

            He’s okay.

            There’s metal in front of him, but it’s just the cot rails. It’s a bunk bed setup, and the shadow across his face is easily explained by the sagging mattress half a metre above his face.

            His eyes fixate on the metal rod and, just like that, it’s too much.

            He pushes himself upright, joints complaining every inch of the way. Doesn’t matter about the pain, he just doesn’t want to be so low, so vulnerable. And he rubs his jaw now, tracing the line in wonder, feeling the absence of metal. Like so many other parts of him, his mouth is empty.

            ‘Hey…Prom?’

            He’s breathing too hard. Noctis has noticed.

            Looking up in momentary shock, Prompto stills his trembling - _such a stupid reaction -_ and replies with just a barely-audible _Mm?_

‘You okay?’

            ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.’

            What else can he say?

            He glances round the room while Noctis fishes for words. ‘Where’s Iggy?’ He’s about to ask where Gladio is too, but it’s pretty implicit in his tone.

            ‘Doing a perimeter check with Gladio.’

            Prompto gets up, all too suddenly, and Noctis moves in tandem — is that a flinch? Does Noct think he’s gonna hurt him?

            A quick check of the hands, the clothing. Nope. Still Prompto. Good.

            ‘They’ll be back soon,’ Noctis says, and that’s when he realises it wasn’t a flinch. Noct thought he was about to flip out; he was merely getting ready to support him.

            When Prompto starts pacing the dorm, he moves as assuredly as he can possibly manage. It’s a balancing act — trying to purge the taste of copper from his tongue and the memories from behind his eyelids, while not giving Noctis cause to worry on his behalf. It’s a lot to think — or to avoid thinking — about.

            He grips the bars of the top bunk. The aim was to stretch out his arms, but now perhaps it’s too much. His tendons seem as useless as noodles. Still he grips, and he lets the strain settle, allows it to work in his favour. He’ll need to be strong enough to fight soon. Need to get Noctis out of here. Need to get to the crystal.

            Noctis … speaking of Noctis, he’s still sitting on his bunk, looking up at Prompto. From this angle, he seems so small beneath him, and for an awful second, Prompto thinks he’s become Ardyn again, lording it over others.

 _Ever by your side_ , he tells Noctis. He sees Noctis smile, watches his best friend turn all abashed and shy.

            Then he closes his eyes, and Ardyn looks back at him.

            At first, he wants to open his eyes again, but something stops him. A small voice, whispered just off to the side.

_Look at him, look at how hurt he was. You remember how it felt, don’t you?_

_Forgive him, Prompto, forgive him._

_Bite deeper._

            If he digs in hard enough with his nails, he can make plasma rise to the surface. Clear liquid glistening on dirtied skin, making the grime gathered there turn streaky. His hands are on the bars of the top bunk, and Noctis can’t see. He fidgets, worries the skin, while Noctis makes innocent, naive plans for the future. Noctis is so pure when he talks of setting the world to rights — it’s almost enough to give him real hope, and it’s the closest thing he’s going to get to a schoolyard confession of love from the man. _Doesn’t matter you’re from Niflheim. We’ll tear down the barriers between our nations._

            Everything combined, it’s enough to make him doubt he’s really here. Ardyn’s in the shadows, just waiting for him to crack a smile so he can whisk him over into the next reality in his endless stream of torture.

            May as well enjoy this reality while he can.

            He smiles. Nothing happens.

            A short while later, just as Noctis said, Ignis and Gladio return. They have packets of food: crisps and chocolate, mostly.

            He knows he should eat. Nothing nutritious has touched his stomach since the last trail bar he’d stolen from the Magitek facility’s vending machines. The beer from that inn on the Gralean outskirts doesn’t count. Neither does anything of Ardyn’s.

            He wants to be sick at that last thought. Smooth muscle is already contracting deep in the pit of his belly, but he knows if he’s sick now, he’ll only throw up acid. Maybe get himself an ulcer, if he hasn’t already.

            So, for now, he holds back on the food.

            Nobody makes him eat, nobody comments, although the offer is made, should he need it. And he’s back to digging into his palms while they snack away, filling their bellies for the journey ahead.

            Still more time to rest, though, and after a while the digging is not enough. He’s picked away the dirt under his fingernails and he’s been to the bathroom, although there, he mostly ignored what he found. But his ears are itching. He feels so unclean, and he needs to fix that, he needs —

            Ignis hears him approach and knows who it is instantly.

            ‘Is there anything I can get you, Prompto?’

            ‘I don’t mean to sound a bother by asking.’

            ‘No, it’s quite all right.’

            ‘I … gonna sound super dumb but I really want some cotton buds. Hate my ears feeling waxy.’

            ‘Happy to oblige,’ Ignis murmurs, and delves into the Armiger for his supplies.

            It’s a small sachet that Ignis hands over, half-filled with cotton buds and re-sealed so many times the ziplock doesn’t really work any more. He squirrels himself away into the corner, and digs in.

            The familiar refrain — _get it out get it out —_ then Ignis pulls his hand away before he bleeds. He’s a little too late — there’s a soft pink blush decorating the tip of the cotton bud.

            ‘Don’t,’ Ignis says. ‘I can hear what you’re doing.’

            He stops immediately, shaken and fearing retribution, but it never comes. ‘Sorry,’ he whispers, and he lets Ignis prise the bud from his hand. Then he sits back down, lets his hands fall to his lap.

            The light’s on in the dorm but suddenly it’s dark, and there’s grey fabric against his cheek.

            _You are forgiven._


	2. II. STAZIONE: Abbracia

The first Magitek Trooper they run into on the way to the Crystal is a shock to Prompto’s system. It’s all clanking metal and impassive expression, and at once he feels the firm pressure on his body, he’s on the bed at the snowed-in shrine and the trooper is on top of him, weighing him down, touching, pressing. His chest is tight and fuck, it’s been on him for _such a long time._

            It’s not going to stop until Ardyn gets back, and this makes him panic.

A moment of pure horror, that’s all it takes, then his back hits the wall and he’s in the grimy, dirt-streaked corridor, flanked by Ignis and Gladio, watching Noctis put the desperate creature out of commission with a swift strike of his sword.

            The scream is horrifically high-pitched and it nearly matches Prompto’s own. The wretched soul that inhabits the armour falls to pieces, miasma spilling from its flesh and crackling in red-lighted decay on the ground. In another life, the same thing would have happened to him.

            Prompto tries to catch his breath. Checks his hands, his forearms, no, it’s okay — he’s still himself.

            It didn’t help that the trooper had jumped out at them from nowhere, either. Shook him like a tree in autumn, all his hard-earned composure tumbling down like leaves. There’s no time to put himself back together; they have to keep going. They have to reach the Crystal.

            By now, the others all know. He’s shown them the barcode, he’s opened doors and activated lift shafts, he’s had his emotional moment and they’ve done the obligatory _we accept you despite everything._ He still doesn’t quite believe it. But at any rate, they know.

            So in the wake of the trooper getting the jump on him, there is an uncomfortable moment where they all stand there, unsure of what to say or do. Normally, Noctis might make some comment about _those damn freaky things_ , but that’s not exactly appropriate. Instead, Noctis gives him a look that he's sure is meant to be caring, but it just comes across as pitying instead. He's aware, he knows Noctis cares _so much_ about him, but he simply can't figure out why. He's ... this is such an embarrassment.

            Nobody says a word.

            Prompto shifts where he stands, and pushes the hair from his face. If he was more like his old self right now, he might have stepped up, cracked a joke about family reunions. But right now he’s still wading through sludge in his mind. He’s thinking _they’re so very obedient, they don’t stop unless you tell them to,_ but there’s no way he can say that out loud. Because then his friends would know. Or they’d figure, at least. And that would burn in his chest, worse than the shock of being taken by surprise.

            That uncomfortable heat working up through his body, it’s guilt. Pure and raw and _oh gods, why did he let it happen?_

            He’s so ashamed.

            A soft thud on his shoulder. Gladio.

            ‘C’mon, kid. Ain’t far now.’

            None of them know where the Crystal’s being kept, let alone how far away it is. But Prompto forces a smile anyway. Gladio’s trying to stay positive, and that’s got to count for something.

            ‘Yeah.’ And he falls into line, safe in the centre of the group.

 


	3. III. STAZIONE: Lui cade sotto il peso

 

They encounter the daemon that once was Iedolas in a small control room long before they reach the central elevator. Completely transformed now, the creature moves much faster than he had in the throne room, and he strikes both Noctis and Ignis down with a single lash of his sinewy arm.

            An idea comes to the fore, and the instant Prompto thinks it, he acts, leaping to the opposite end of the room, dodging past the imps and lesser daemons as he goes.

            ‘Hey! Remember me?’ His voice is a bark in the metal-walled room and Iedolas snaps to attention. A flash of cold anger in those eyes. He remembers. A pained growl, and the daemon emperor’s trajectory does a complete one-eighty. Starts heading for him.

            Prompto thumbs the item in his pocket. Noctis had given them all magic flasks before leaving the dormitory. Thank his lucky stars he was given the lightning flasks. He clutches it tight, and waits for the opportune moment.

            Gladio notices, and yells out, but he’s halfway through swinging his greatsword in a wide arc, too hampered by his own blade to stop him. Noctis and Ignis are both struggling upright. No time. Prompto detonates the flask like a grenade, a kamikaze burst that has him falling to the floor, twitching in agony along with the daemon. He can’t focus any longer but luckily neither can the daemon, and he’s dimly aware of Gladio moving in to finish the tragic creature off.

            His mind is all lit up in exquisite agony, all clashes of colours and sparks. His muscles, seizing up, and —

            _oh god, it hurts, why is this happening, why did I let this happen_

            — it’s perfect.

            One second heat gathers in his groin, the next he’s trying not to vomit on the cold linoleum.

            _How much more can you take, my dear? You really are just showing off to them now._

He tells Ardyn to shut up, and enjoys the small thrill of power the deliberate pain has given him. He would enjoy it for longer, but there’s a furious grunting around him that can’t possibly be coming from the felled daemon.

            Gladio. Staring at him with ire. It scares him at first, because Gladio’s eyes are so golden and his hair frays about his head at this angle, long and wild and whimsical but it’s okay. It’s dark brown, not red.

            ‘A bit of warning next time, before you do that?’

            ‘I …’ Wait, what has he done wrong? An uncomfortable warmth spreads its way through his chest. It has a kind of fizzing quality, and his veins feel much too tight. _I’ve fucked up, I’ve fucked up. Didn’t take long, huh?_

But it’s not for the reason he thinks.

            ‘You could’ve injured yourself.’

            Oh. Gladio’s concerned for him, and this should not be an unusual feeling but, after the past few weeks, it feels so new, and so strange.

            ‘Y-yeah, I’m … sorry.’

            Gladio grunts. ‘Well. Just don’t do it again.’

            ‘It was rather reckless,’ Ignis says.

            Prompto thinks they’re overreacting until he sees the pained look on Noct’s face. Then he just feels guilty.

            How could he explain that it wouldn’t have worked with anyone else, that Iedolas only wanted to lash out at him? How could he talk about the blood that was taken?

            It seems pretty damn impossible, so he keeps quiet and, again, falls into line. They’re watching him still —well, Iggy’s listening out, but same thing really — and he feels so terribly exposed, even ensconced in the centre of the group. Noctis doesn’t leave the room immediately to continue on their mission, and he steps through the haze of dust cast up from the electrical burns, into Prompto's personal space.

            He doesn’t ask Prompto if he can hug him, but he’s so distraught by what just happened that Prompto doubts he’d even be capable of doing so. At once, a vicelike grip across his singed and tingling skin, pressing into the ache from the magic. It hurts, and he winces, sobs, gives himself up to the embrace. Gripping him closer like he did with Ardyn because it’s the only way he knows to beg for mercy. For kindness. _Please._

Noctis must think he’s doing it out of desire because he grips all the tighter. It’s such a weird juxtaposition now; Noct’s face buried in the crook of his aching shoulders, nose pressing upon the tendon strained from previous dislocation, Noct’s hair tickling his neck, his ear, all at once too close and too much, but at the same time, he’s feeling flushed, a prickling pattering away over his skin, almost like the lightning elemancy, but reaching deeper inside.

            _Love you too, Noct._

_And I really mean it, I do. I’d do whatever you asked._

_I’ve had plenty of practice._

His groin suddenly feels too warm and he doesn’t want that, he just wants comfort.

            He’s confused. But he’s pretty sure mentioning it will make it worse. So he keeps silent, and lets Noctis hold him.

Eventually it does hurt too much for him to handle, and he utters a shameful ‘Ow’, and accompanied by a sharp intake of breath it makes Noctis bolt upright.

            ‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry, Prom.’

            He shakes his head, all too fast. ‘No, it’s … it was nice.’

            Gladio and Noctis are looking at him now like they know he’s lying. Ignis is tapping ever so gently on his cane, deep in thought, and even though his burned eyes don’t face Prompto’s way, Prompto feels the attention like a rash.

            Judgement is a troublesome feeling, and he longs for the electric spark over his senses again. The lights of heaven, one step closer, in all their terrifying, ecstatic glory. For that one moment, the pain was entirely _his._

‘I, uh…’ Noctis doesn’t quite know how to begin his sentence. Eventually he stumbles into the words. ‘Just wanna, ah, check. Was that all the lightning flasks you used?’

            ‘Seems like,’ Gladio murmured, eyes still on the scorch marks on the linoleum.

            Prompto pauses for thought. There’s two flasks still squirrelled away in his back pocket.

            ‘Yeah,’ he says, keeping his voice small and unobtrusive. ‘That was all of them.’

 

 


	4. IV. STAZIONE: Una spada trafigge l’anima

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write this scene since my first goddamn playthrough. That look in his eyes. Ugh.

 

Prompto can hear Noctis yelling from the far end of the walkway, and so begins a long and unbearable sixty seconds toward the heart of the Crystal chamber. In the air all around them, crystalline particles collide and accompany the screams with an ethereal chiming.

            It looks like what he saw at the altar, only cast in icy white, not gold. What did Ignis call the mineral again? Apophyllite. Something that flakes all too easily, something prone to breaking apart.

            How has the Crystal existed for so many centuries, if it’s such a fragile thing? Such a thought should give him hope, but instead it just angers him.

            Noctis’s screaming cuts through the air again and thrusts him outside of himself, because it’s horrifying to hear such a sound when it’s not coming from his own mouth. Seconds later he’s running, pelting it down the corridor. It’s easier to get fired up over Noct’s pain, because Noctis doesn’t deserve this, he never did. And Prompto cares far too much; he’s bristling, he’s ready to rip apart whoever’s causing it.

            He already knows who that is, but he’s trying not to think on it too keenly.

            Somewhere behind him, Gladio yells and he ignores him. He’s dimly aware that, in the rush, he’s knocked Ignis’s cane aside but it doesn’t matter, Iggy’ll be fine. More important that he drives forward.

            He sprints down the walkway, and the shadows flickering like candlelight at the far end grow clearer. One shape stands out in particular — a tall and broad-shouldered figure that carries himself so regally. Closer now, and red hair looks purple as a bruise beneath that stupid fucking hat.

            Prompto’s chest is already all seized up from the chase, the fresh wound above his heart tearing at the seams and leaking warmth into the bandage there. Seeing Ardyn again — so close, so goddamn _close —_ after all that passed, it’s going to send him into cardiac arrest. He’s splitting apart.

_It’s him, it’s him, he’s really here._

            He has to be here, because Gladio’s shouting his name too.

            Prompto is the first one to reach him.

            An entire planet turns on its axis as Ardyn pats the crystal, tilts his hat toward them all, and makes as if to leave. Prompto’s on the terminus, that point between night and day, the dusk line of the cosmic megalith. On the cusp of reason and posterity, and as Ardyn takes a step forward, all strangeness and charm, he slips over that line.

            There’s shouting all around him, bubbling up from somewhere just out of reach. Screaming and cursing and it’s so loud it’s going to tear his brain apart.

            _What you did to me… What you did to all of us…_

And now he has him, cornered and alone and with backup swiftly approaching, and it feels perfect. _What would you do if you ever came face to face with him again?_ Well, now’s his chance to find out. His chance to take revenge, his chance to hurt and punish, to —

            _become just as vindictive as Ardyn was to you._

            No.

            He clutches the walkway rail and it’s slimy beneath his touch. He looks. It’s a branch, a rain-soaked branch. Candletree, there, look at the pillar-like flowers, the stamens wavering. Everything’s heavy with rain and his forehead is streaked with drops and Ardyn’s turning round from where he gloats before the crystal, hungry eyes upon him now, ready to shove him up against the rock —

            His entire body vibrates in fear, then slips fluidly into pure anger.

            Half-spoken sentences, crystallising in the air like the apophyllite fragments swirling around him. The sentences cluster in his ears, the mineral dust coats his tongue.

            _Where’s Noctis?_

            He pushes back from the rock wall and ducks around until he’s on Ardyn’s other side, until he’s got Ardyn cornered, and fuck any gigantoads that come his way.

            Now Ardyn spreads his arms wide in greeting, and he’s a holy icon, a frontispiece to an altar that smells of sin and Prompto yells out. He wants to ask where Noctis is but the words don’t leave his mouth. Just a strangled noise.

            Ardyn hasn’t said anything out loud but Prompto’s so certain he’s saying _Welcome home, my child._ For a moment, the gesture he makes is so friendly it feels like a family reunion.

            _You are his creation, after all. Verstael shaped the clay, but Ardyn made the blueprint._

_Enter into the fold with him._

            The desire to raise one hand to his throat, to check Ardyn’s not already up close and choking him, is so strong but he doesn’t dare. Needs to keep both hands on his gun, keep both hands —

            Gladio interrupts his haywire thoughts by rushing up and sparing no second to tear into Ardyn with his greatsword. A spray of something like blood in the dust-laden air, and for one glorious second Prompto’s heart leaps in his chest, and he can’t figure out whether this is due to delight or fear. Maybe it’s fear. As if he ought to say _Gladio, no, you can’t do that to Ardyn, he’ll make you suffer for it._ As if, by way of association with Gladio, he is culpable and _I’m sorry Ardyn, fuck, I’m sorry, please don’t..._

            The strike does nothing more than make Ardyn stumble, thank the Gods. And Prompto’s glad. If that had been enough to kill the man, if it had really been so easy, he would never have forgiven himself for not fighting harder.

            While Ardyn staggers back up, Prompto thinks he wants to die, he imagines the nightmare just being over, and then he realises. This is his chance. _Oh, hi there, opening._

He still can’t scream out the words he wants to so he yells wild nonsense instead and this whole thing, from running up to the crystal to the final pull of that trigger, it’s only taken a few seconds but it feels like lifetimes and he closes the page now with a pistol shot that rings out in the crystal-ridden room.

            The bullet strikes true, and Ardyn falls, pierced through the lungs from behind. From the angle, Prompto’s sure he managed to get Ardyn’s spine too. No way he can recover from that, surely.

            It’s only after he fires that he remembers what happened outside the shrine. Ardyn, trading places with that Magitek Trooper at the last second.

            What if he’s traded places with Gladio?

            A frenzied look Gladio’s way, but the man isn’t smiling in that wry, insidious manner. And really now, if Ardyn had traded places, he would not have been able to contain his mirth, would he?

            So no. Gladio’s not smiling, which isn’t to say he’s not relieved. That much is apparent beneath his frown and his tight breaths. His heavy brow slowly un-creases.

            ‘Nice work, Prom.’

            Ardyn’s still not moving.

            Something immense shifts inside Prompto’s chest. He’s daring himself to feel it. Allow himself the relief. It’s a big step, and he nearly lets himself do it.

            _If that’s it, if he’s really gone, I don’t know … I don’t know what to do. Gladio, I…_

His mouth’s trying to form the words and he catches Gladio’s eye. The big guy’s looking at him, stood all legs spread and gun still clutched tight, barrel still smoking gently. He’s looking at him as if he’s about to cry.

            _Is he proud of me?_      

            Ignis is approaching now, finally caught up with them, and Ardyn’s ridiculous hat rolls to a stop right by his feet. The rim bumps his cane and Ignis freezes.

            Then, the unthinkable happens.

            Ardyn stirs, joints cracking into motion as he reaches forward and picks up his hat.

            The planet turns on its axis once again and Prompto slips over once more to the dark side of the moon. He’s going to be sick. He’s waiting for Ardyn to stop time and drag him back to the rig, to say something scathing, to tell him it’s all just another illusion.

            But what happens is worse.

            Ardyn doesn’t even turn to look at him. Not a word on the fact he just shot him. Not a reprimand or a commendation — nothing, even, to answer the question of _where the fuck is Noctis_ but a lackadaisical wave of his hat to Ignis, who can’t even see it anyway, and he’s strolling on out of there like he doesn’t owe any of them a thing.

            They all know they can’t stop him, so nobody tries again. Once he’s vanished out of sight, Prompto realises he’s still holding the gun, pointing it at the floor but gripping so hard his bruised fingers are white.

            He’s screaming but the room is deadly silent. Why can’t Gladio or Ignis hear him? Why won’t Ardyn just fucking turn round and give him _something?_ Anything; a curse, an insult, a touch or a kiss. Something to justify everything. Not this … acting like nothing’s happened in front of his friends. This covering up of the truth the way he covers up the daemon decay on his skin. The bullet wound above Prompto’s heart pulses and he feels more blood bloom and he wants to cry. He probably already is.

            Ignis walks up to the Crystal, slipping ever so slightly on the dark bloody mess in the centre of the gangway — the only evidence of their assault on Ardyn. He reaches out to the shimmering prismatic shape before him, traces a gloved hand over the crystal clusters, gently enough to avoid knocking more fragments out. It’s like he’s listening with his hands, and it feels like the air is thrumming. It’s uncomfortable, feels like tinnitus, and Prompto wants to clamp his hands over his ears but no, he still can’t let go of the gun. Just in case, just in case. Not sure if Ardyn would allow him to let go, anyway — what if he tries and those tendrils are secretly there all along, strapping his fingers down to the trigger, and —

            _Fucking stop it, Prompto._

            ‘He’s in the Crystal,’ Ignis says.

            ‘He’s what?’

            Prompto doesn’t believe it either — because why would that happen, it makes no sense — but he lacks the voice to be as forceful as Gladio over it. He really must be dreaming. And just for a moment, the thought makes him feel at peace. When he wakes up, Noctis will rescue him, for real this time, and they’ll escape the Keep together.

            Ignis reaches, taps him on the shoulder.

            ‘Come on, Prompto.’

            It’s at this point that Prompto realises Gladio’s been arguing with Ignis. He’s managed to shut the man’s abrasive voice out and now it enters back in at full force, and he winces. Ignis is steely in his riposte.

            ‘Enough, Gladio. There’s nothing more we can do from here. We’re leaving.’

            And it’s Ignis who ushers them out of the Crystal chamber, as if they’re a pair of belligerent children, not grown-ass men who both tried and failed at murder.


	5. V. STAZIONE: Beato anche tu, che hai portato la croce

 

They camp on the edge of the city. Bracken and dead trees surround them, and there’s enough twigs scattered around to warn them of any encroaching intruders but still, it hardly feels safe. They’re sitting round a meagre campfire and nobody’s saying a word.

            It’s been over a month now since Ignis lost his sight, and he seems intent on trying to cook, although he hasn’t gotten much further than reheating a few canned things. And it always ends up either tepid or burned — he can’t seem to find that comfortable in-between yet. Not that there’s many ingredients to work with, anyway. Cans of beans, which they don’t eat because it reminds them of Noctis, and some sausages, sauerkraut, mashed potato. Everything looks like it’s been preserved in aspic and it smells like microwaves and old towels.

            Gladio and Ignis are trying, so he ought to try too. But he can’t bring himself to draw the food up to his mouth. He stabs at it with his fork, and the plastic bends against the tin tray. More material they’d stolen from the Keep. Disposable. Inefficient. But hey, it’ll do.

            He watches the white plastic stain with sauce — an irreversible process for something this disposable — and he watches the mashed vegetables stick in clumps to the fork’s teeth.

            Something washes his insides cold and he puts the fork down.

            Maybe later.

 

Hours on into the night and his stomach is complaining. He’s on the verge of pain, and he wonders if maybe puking would help.

            There’s the memory of the spare lightning flasks in his pocket and the insidious thought telling him to _yes, just do it. Let it spill out, go on._

He wrestles with his thoughts, then stumbles to the edge of camp. Throws up in a bush, pricking his hands on thorns while he does so. Behind him, the sounds of shuffling. A sigh.

            ‘You should really eat something, Prompto.’

            ‘I … I know, okay?’

            He prays that Gladio won’t push the issue. He doesn’t know what he’d say in response if he does. He doesn’t want to find out.

            When Prompto eventually gets round to eating, he commits the act with complete detachment. Flavour, texture, none of it registers. It’s a simple transaction: all he has to do is chew and swallow, and energy goes in, fuels the system. _You’re a machine, Prompto. A vassal for my —_

            ‘Would you mind passing the empty tins this way?’ Ignis cuts in, shutting off the voice.

            Prompto blinks his surroundings into focus. Of course. Where he’s crouched by the fire, he’s now the closest to the empty food tins, the remains of what can barely be classed as cooking. He reaches out. Collects the tins. It gives his mind something gloriously inane to do for the next few seconds, and he’s mostly just happy he can do at least something without fucking it up.

 

He tries not to hear Ignis and Gladio arguing late at night. ‘He’s the Chancellor of Niflheim, who the bloody hell do we tell?’

            ‘Gotta do something, though. He shouldn’t get away with—’

            ‘With what, Gladio? He’s already a murderer; this is hardly surprising. And besides, he hasn’t left much of a governmental structure to allow himself to be accountable for his crimes.’

            A loud thud as something —Gladio’s boot, presumably — collides with a log. It’s followed by a lot of swearing. ‘So we’re just gonna let him leave a trail of broken people in his wake, huh? I can’t — Iggy, it was bad enough with you. Now Prompto.’

            They’ve figured it out. He never needed to say anything, in the end.

            Why would he? It’d be obvious to anyone. And now it feels like a badge plastered across his vest, brighter and bolder than any of the punk patches he’s sewn on himself. This badge is as shameful as his barcode, and it takes pride of place. Won’t let him hide, won’t let him escape the spotlight, and gods, how he wants to.

            There’s the all too prominent worry that everyone will always be able to see how much of a fuckup he is. Is it something that fades with time? Will it get better? Or perhaps he will learn to just fucking get it right in future. To not get caught. To not be the weak link in the chain. To not be so much of a goddamn target.

            He wonders what it would take to look, to sound like Gladio. To have that much presence when entering a room.

            And he decides against trying, because that would mean acting dominant, and he doesn’t want to toe the line between what’s him and what’s Ardyn. A minor panic as he realises it’s too dark to check the colour of his hair. But he feels it anyway, runs his hands through it, and it feels enough like his own to calm him.

            Gladio and Ignis are talking about Noctis now, and that’s too much to bear. He doesn’t want to even approach that subject. He tunes out.

            The blankets they’ve fished out of the Armiger are scratchy as hell, and remind him of the bed in the sanctuary. It’s something that’s not worth the meagre comforts it provides. He’s cold, though, and he’s without his snow gear — not that he wanted to have kept it, it was Ardyn’s anyway — and he has to make do.

            So he keeps the covers drawn up around him. He’s been sure to lie down a full metre away from where Ignis has set up his things, because the last thing he wants to do is have a stupid dream and wake the man up with kicking. It had been hard enough realising he’d woken up Noctis that way in Lestallum, after the first time.

            He lets the chattering in his head overtake the sounds of Ignis and Gladio talking. He tries to fall asleep.

            Behind him, the shadows are lapping softly at his ears, his hair. A second ago it was just pillow fabric. He’s too scared to brush them off. If he goes to sleep, if he manages to make it into unconsciousness, maybe they’ll just go away.

            He wants nothing more than to drift.

_I think not. Focus. Don’t disappoint me._

The words are sharp and spoken millimetres from his ear. Distinct from the background chatter. He’s up like a shot, washed cold with fear, and he’s trying to focus, he’s really trying, but his eyes are crossing over. There’s too much darkness around him, and anything he can see, he sees double of.

            He waits until Ignis and Gladio are both finished with their awkward conversation, until they’re both settled down for the night.

            Then, when he’s sure they’re asleep, he gets up as quietly as he can, and makes his way to the edge of the camp. The fire is reduced to dying embers now, but it’s enough to see by. He steps softly, taking his time, avoiding the scattered twigs, edging forward like a mouse hesitant to wake a cat — as if the other two would be angry with him, but then, you never know. You never know.

            Avoiding the bush he threw up around earlier, he crouches by a rock, staring up at the cloudy sky, not quite sure what he’s doing. He ought to be scared of the bracken and the shadows, if experience is anything to go by, but he’s so close to the edge that it probably doesn’t matter. If it’s going to get him, it will. And so he crouches there, takes in the cold air like a tonic to his weary lungs, and he hyperfixates on shooting Ardyn point-blank. The scene plays out on endless loop, and as much as he tries to change the ending, Ardyn always rises again.

            _I shot through his spine, and he just fucking got up._

            That had not been a hallucination. Gladio and Ignis had seen it too.

            Unless they weren’t real. Unless he was still —

            _No. Stop. Don’t go down that road._

Ardyn didn’t die. Couldn’t die. The possibility he could be lying in wait round every corner is too real, and if that is the case, how can he face taking even one more step forward? How can he live with the uncertainty?

            The lightning flasks are all too palpable in his pocket. Would be better than burning his wrist with fireplace embers again. Less noticeable. The clamour in his head rises — _do it, let it spill out, go on._

            His heart’s thudding as he removes one flask and he doesn’t break it outright, he wants to preserve its contents. Precious material. So he unscrews the lid so just enough can come out, and he shakes the flask. A small flick of the wrist, that’s all it takes, and a small arc of elemental magic lances out, catches him, travelling up his arm and to his solar plexus. Again, just for a second, the agony makes sense.

 _This is how it’s going to play out_. _You’re going to cry. You’re going to scream._

Fuck that.

            His breath hitches but he doesn’t cry out. He won’t.

            When he’s done with his little sliver of control, he re-screws the flask, and slots it back into his pocket. Muscles seize up a little as he ekes out a path back to his blanket, back to the others, but he doesn’t mind that at all. Call it an exercise in personal autonomy.


	6. VI. STAZIONE: Guarite da spiriti cattivi

 

Prompto knows he would use the lightning flask again in a heartbeat, should the internal clamour rise, should the din become too unbearable. He just needs distractions, things to occupy himself with. Hands, heart and mind.

            Keeping himself busy is hardly difficult as they make their way to the port. Gralea’s suburbs lie in shambles, the aftermath of riots in the streets evident in the amount of debris Ignis keeps tripping over. Prompto has his hands full helping him move along while Gladio heads the party, spotting for danger up ahead. And this suits him fine. It leaves less time for the unspoken words to cut in at the edges.

            They’re outside the main city now, crossing into the small towns and villages on the city’s periphery, all those insignificant and once-overly-populated places slowly being subsumed by encroaching city development. Now laid to waste, of course. They’re traversing an open common when in the distance there’s a shout, booming deep and low. Prompto’s on high alert in an instant, hand tensing up where he’s guiding Ignis along, and Ignis freezes.

            ‘What is it, Prompto?’

            He breathes. Recovers.

            ‘Just a noise. In the distance.’

            ‘Oh, the shouting? Yes, I heard. It ought not to be a problem.’ Fingers curl around Prompto’s and squeeze back, making him realise just how hard he had been holding on. He loosens his grip, and continues guiding Ignis along. Ignis is right — the noise is pretty far away, and it’s probably just some Gralean refugees, on their way out of the city just like them, trying to find their friends and companions in the streets.

            What business has he, being startled like a frightened rabbit?

            There’s nothing to be afraid of, he tells himself, nothing at all, as he continues to lead Ignis on.

 

The hike into the countryside proper passes with little incident. They manage to avoid both people and daemons, although the shadows slither in the corners still, and for once the outer world looks like the inside of Prompto’s mind. That is surprisingly comforting, the thought that he’s not alone in it any more.

            There’s a momentary lapse of reason as the guilt trips him up, because how could he? How could he wish that darkness upon his friends too? Then he reverts to normalcy. Walks on.

            A good spot to set up camp presents itself, and they set to it, nestling the campfire in a small hollow. They’re still having trouble with the Armiger — it’s glitching in and out with uneven rhythm, which may be a result of Noctis’s disappearance. That or a sign that the darkness is winning. Regardless, they’re only able to access the rip in reality long enough to drag out sleeping bags, which is still a damn sight better than the meagre blankets of last night. Gladio’s grumbling that a tent would have been even better, but Prompto’s quite happy to have just the sleeping bags. Easier to run, should they need to.

            They’ve taken to cramming what useful items they have found in the Armiger into real, physical backpacks now. The discovery of the sleeping bags will add an extra few pounds to the carry weight come the morning, but it will be worth it.

            They settle in.

           

An hour later, after an unilluminating dinner of mushy peas, Prompto’s sitting by the fire, congratulating himself internally on taking it all in without being sick. Gladio’s darning the hem of a trouser leg beside him. Usually this would be Ignis’s remit, but for obvious reasons it’s not today.

            ‘I can help, if you like.’

            ‘Nah, s’all right.’ A grunt follows, and nothing more.

            ‘Oh, uh, okay.’

            He pauses. Was that too flippant?

            He decides to protect against that just in case. ‘I mean, Ignis did teach me how to darn and stuff, like, I can do it if it’ll help.’

            ‘Give it a rest, Prompto…’

            For a moment he thinks Gladio will switch, lash out in rage. Not like he hasn’t before. And, well, even if he hadn’t, anyone could. Would. Especially when he’s acting like such an idiot. He can’t risk even the slightest bit of incentive for them to turn furious.

            He curls inward, exerts damage control.

            ‘I-I didn’t mean… Didn’t wanna imply… Ah, I’m sorry, Gladio. Please.’

            Somehow, Gladio looks more annoyed than before. Shit, he miscalculated. He got it wrong. He bites back on saying more, and waits.

            ‘Imply what? Look, I’m a big guy, yeah, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know how to sew.’

            Prompto’s stunned, and he can’t find the words to cover it. Saying sorry doesn’t seem to be right. He shouldn’t start sentences he can’t finish.

            ‘No, seriously, I just… didn’t wanna imply you were thinking a certain way if you weren’t. Y’know?’

            Gods, he’s messing this up.

            Nothing changes.

            Gladio huffs, and the sound is a firecracker to his bleating heart. He’s just a whole bundle of nerves, wrapped up in Ardyn’s fickle aftertaste, not quite sure whether he’s doing it right or wrong, and panicking without the solid evidence to prove it either way.

            Such a stupid, simple conversation, and somehow it’s lanced through to somewhere deep.

            He sits back down. Starts the routine process of checking over the supplies in his rucksack. It’s a repetitive task with clearly-delineated steps. Good for idle hands and minds. Good for distraction. The only worry is that Gladio will glance his way, and judge the manner in which he re-ties his skivvy rolls — clothing, folded and compacted military-style. After all, Gladio taught him how to do those, so he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

            When he’s run out of things to do, he decides against packing everything over again. The last thing he wants to do is attract attention for what might seem weird behaviour.

            He doesn’t want to ask if there’s anything more he can help with; the fear that the conversation will go wrong if he does so is too strong. Too many times failing at that already today. He simply takes his chances and curls up, tries to sleep.

 


	7. VII. STAZIONE: Non stare lontano da me

 

Somebody’s touching him. A hand, gripping his shoulder, and it’s trying to pull him somewhere. His first instinct is to rebel. His second is to keep quiet and let himself be pulled, lest the grip turn to bruising, lest the bruising turn to a gunshot wound. The jolt of fear the latter thought gives him works in his favour, because it effectively rouses him from sleep.

            Someone’s looking at him intensely, and the square jaw and the stubble sets him off. He wants to raise his hands to his chest, check over the healing wound there up by his shoulder joint, and it’s an impulsive notion brought on by the memory of the gunshot wound and the fear, gods, the fear, but he keeps both arms down by his sides, just in case. Just to please.

            The shadow above him speaks, and the voice is more gruff than he expects.

            ‘Shh. We gotta move, kid. Daemons comin’.’

            He’s realising, bit by bit, that it’s okay, that this is only Gladio. It’s not making the sludge and the sickliness slough away from him any quicker, and he just prays that who he sees before him is the truth and not a wish fulfilment fantasy. Still too dark to see if he’s in the cell or not.

            What time is it?

            He’s opening his mouth, closing it again, trying to get out more than a pathetic whine as the big man’s eyes bore into his.

            ‘I can hear gunshots, too.’ Ignis, whispering just off to the side. ‘They’ve run into a refugee party, by the sounds of it.’

            Gladio’s distracted for a moment, although the hold on his shoulders remains firm.

            ‘Should we go help ‘em out?’

            ‘No, they sound incredibly well-armed. We’d likely just get shot in a misunderstanding.’

            Prompto’s starting to remember bits of his dream. The swamplands, the torches, the priests of the temple and the chase, the chase that had led him straight back into Ardyn’s clutches again.

            It seemed his dream wasn’t too far off from reality this time.  Perhaps he had heard the clamouring, perhaps that was why he had dreamt it.

            And since Gladio said daemons … What if …

The one whose name he doesn’t want to even visualise in his mind let alone speak. His throat feels stuck on treacle and tar.

            He needs to know what time it is, now.

            Beyond the frayed edges of Gladio’s raked-back hair, the sky is an inky black. The green glow the sun makes as it filters through starscourge-miasma isn’t gracing the horizon at all. It’s early yet.

            Okay. The exact hour doesn’t matter so much. But if he doesn’t see the green glow within, say, the next few hours, he’ll have to start assuming this isn’t real.

            ‘C’mon, don’t just stare, get to it,’ Gladio hisses, and he’s probably just eager to get them moving, but there’s nothing to say he’s not pissed off with Prompto’s incompetence.

            He looks up at Gladio, breathless, wide-eyed, aware of how powerless he is in this position. His heart is so loud — can Gladio hear it? — and he wishes it would calm down. Be quiet, like his mind, which is spiralling up and away from the scene.

            He can feel his eyebrows, frozen high on his face, and he exhales the word ‘Yes’, as bland and as level as possible. Not too quiet, lest he be asked to repeat himself, and not too loud, lest it be seen as a challenge.

            Something crosses Gladio’s face then. Could be pity, could be regret. Either way, he loosens his grip.

            Prompto scrambles for his belongings, and decides he never wants to see that look in Gladio’s eyes again. It makes him feel spread bare _._ Any more, and he’ll be sick.

            They pack their things quickly and head in the opposite direction of the noise and the light. Should take a half day longer to reach the port, Gladio says, but at least they’ll make it with one less untoward encounter.

            Their diversion tracks back into wild undergrowth. Twigs crackle underfoot. Prompto flinches, snaps his attention to the bushes, expecting pale yellow eyes and twisted shadows.

            Nothing there. At least, nothing bigger than a sparrow. As if affirming his suspicions, a bird takes wing a little farther off, swooping upward into the eerie ever-present twilight.

            Nothing’s gonna get him.

            But although the danger is gone, the idea of the shadow stays ever present, just past the edge of his vision. Mud and brackish water and riddles in the dark.

            It’s a little seed. It’s being born.

 

 


	8. VIII. STAZIONE: Voi siete il sale della terra

 

The port is a vast industrial sprawl, and it smells far too strongly of motor oil for Prompto to be comfortable. It’s grey against the grainy twilight backdrop of the softly-swelling sea, and it seems a place where the buzz of activity never dies, no matter how many people do.

            Ignis sniffs the salty air, and nearly stumbles on a concrete block of stairs as he does so. Tells the group ‘We’re here,’ although everyone already knows. Further down and they can start bartering their way off the continent.

            They don’t particularly care what vessel; anything will do so long as it’s headed to Lucis. And there’s a couple hanging around the docks to choose from. One’s a fishing boat, turns out that won’t accept passengers. The other has a flock of people gathered round, and yes, this looks promising.

            The ship is one of those grand old things the Niffs were fond of before the Magitek advancements kicked in and took over the economy. High masts and sails, but there’s a funnel so presumably there’s an engine, too.

            The crewman at the registry board is bearded and burly, every bit the seafarer one might expect. He asks the trio their names and final destination, and his voice is deep and low, with more of a thick treacle edge to it than Gladio’s. It is immediately uncomfortable to Prompto, and he performs his familiar dance of shifting surreptitiously to the back of the group.

            The man doesn’t even sound all that much like Ardyn; yes, it’s the closest match since leaving Zegnautus Keep, but it’s a tenuous link at best, and Prompto doesn’t know why his mind gets caught on these things. He tries to stop it, but he’s fighting a rising tide. Any more and it will swallow him.

            He thinks he’s going to feel free when he leaves the shore, but the instant he steps out onto the water-moss-covered jetty and looks up at the oversized life raft ahead of him, he feels the threat. Water’s rising. They’re out of time — and _what time is it, anyway?_ How are those precious seconds doing? Still ticking forward?

            He can only hope.

            And what’s going to happen to all those people behind him, all those back on the desperate shores, those who don’t have the money to board? Ship’s got limited space, and by the clamouring crowd at his back, there’s clearly a disagreement over who gets priority.

            Prompto steps on board, and he thinks of the Magitek industry, of the hundreds of similar vessels put out of commission by the wheels of progress, and he feels culpable. It’s code printed into his own genes, after all; he’s part of the problem. It’s as though his steps on the deck form the final press of the boot on the face of the tall ship’s existence.

            As if he’s the future, and this thing isn’t.

            In short, him coming on board feels like a curse, and that’s never a good thing to feel when a ship is ready to set sail. He’s hardly going to mention it to anyone — ill omens at sea are still taken seriously. And it’s easy to see why, because for all their advancements and all their progress, they’re still heading out onto the ocean, wild and massive and untameable.

            The crossing from Altissia to the port at Succarpe had been ominous enough, and that had been made on a comfortable, spacious ocean liner. Basically a hotel on the water, with television in the cabins and an on-board restaurant and such a stable keel they had barely felt the sea swells. And still, people had spoken in hushed whispers. _Don’t shoo away the albatrosses. Don’t put bananas out on the breakfast table._

            He files away his apprehensions, and casts his head back towards the other two. Gladio’s just finished chatting to a crewman, and he re-joins them by saying,

            ‘Gonna take four days to sail round Tenebrae. Then Shiva knows how long to make the crossing.’

            Back to Lucis. The very idea seems so foreign.

            ‘Well, I suppose we should locate our bunks and get ourselves settled,’ Ignis muses. ‘Prompto, would you mind showing me the way?’

            ‘Oh! Yeah, sure. Let’s go check it out.’

            He enjoys being given something to do. He guides Ignis down the wooden steps into what must be the communal area below deck. Turns out he’s dead wrong. It’s shared accommodation. No separate cabins, just one big berth area.

            His chest tightens. That’s okay, he can do this.

            The guy benched near the entrance turns out to be the chief steward, and he’s there to assign them a bunk. He’s friendly enough, and the smile in his wind-reddened face seems genuine. He tells each of them their numbers — ‘You lot’re up by the fo’c’sle, that’s up near the front, like.’ — then asks Gladio if he’d mind helping out topside when they get underway. Gladio grunts his approval. Then, his attention turns to Prompto, and Prompto’s so caught up studying the whorls in the wooden panelling that he nearly misses this fact.

            ‘Mind helpin’ out in the galley durin’ the trip? That’s the kitchen, mind.’

            ‘Oh! Yeah.’

            Too much. Too eager. Too obvious, his compliance.

_Shit, shit, shit. Tone it the fuck down._

He adds an extra second on before he continues, just to be safe. He says he’s happy to help out in the mess, no problem, he can find his way around a kitchen kind of okay. It works. The steward no longer raises his eyebrow, he merely makes a notch in his logbook and waves him on.

            ‘’Preciate the extra ‘elp, like.’

            They find the bunks with their numbers. Gladio’s extra protective of the both of them now as he makes a path for them between the other passengers. Nobody’s really smiling at them, but they’re all chatty, in the way birds are before a storm. The low buzz of activity should make Prompto feel frightened, but there’s something about it that stops that from happening. They’re all just human beings trying to survive, to get out of Niflheim before it’s too late.

            The fo’c’sle is a curved, triangular area up at the front of the berth hall. Prompto can’t quite get his mind round the name, let alone his tongue, so he doesn’t bother trying to repeat the steward’s pronunciation.

            Gladio’s got the hammock. Prompto and Ignis are spared the difficulty of swinging their way into such a thing; they have standard-issue bunks. It will be weird, disconcerting, even, sleeping toe to toe with strangers, and Prompto can only hope his dreams are stable, and that he won’t cry out in the night, or worse, kick an unsuspecting bunkmate.

            There’s not much else to do except wait for the horn to sound and announce the ship leaving port, so Prompto stows his belongings and settles back on his bunk, studying the wooden ceiling.

            He thinks he’s going to be okay, but when the ship finally moves off, the motion sets his stomach churning. He hasn’t eaten nearly enough recently. And then the swell starts to hit. It rocks the boat gently and the waves splash against the sides, crooning a soft lullaby, but even these gentle graces are too much.   

            His aching shoulders complain volumes, and his chest hurts with the motion. The wound’s still knitting over, and the memory of prying fingers pressing into the tender flesh splits his vision apart. He can see it happening, right in front of his eyes —Ardyn smiling and saying _A hole in your soul to remember me by —_ and at the same time, there’s nothing but wood panelling and blankets and empty space before him.

            It needs to stop. He wrenches his eyes away from the invisible man, loath to do so because it seems as dangerous as losing sight of a wasp in the room, and he searches for a clock, because he needs to know. There, there’s one on the wall up by the stairs to the main deck, and it’s ticking forward, second by second. No time stitch. He’s not stuck. It’s four in the afternoon, and he’s leaving Niflheim for good.

            That makes things a little better, but there’s still the itching desire to shut up the internal noise. He needs to stopper it before it reaches fever pitch.

            The lightning flask is too volatile to use on board. Too close to water, and he’s not going to risk anyone else’s health over this. But it begs the question — what can he do instead?

            He gently fingers the edges of the bandage below his vest, and the answer, when it presents itself, is an easy one. He should take medicine for the pain, he ought to use what dwindling stock they have left to ensure the wound closes up properly. He decides not to.


	9. IX. STAZIONE: Cadendo per la terza volta (some things never change)

 

Storm’s raging.

            Sailing the coastline along the west side of the Tenebraean peninsula is hell. Choppy waters every inch of the way, and the easterly wind drives against them constantly, aiming to push them onto the rocks. The captain has to take the ship out further from shore, and here it hits huge swells that turn Prompto’s stomach upside down. He can’t hold down any sort of food for too long, and it gets upsetting after the fifth attempt, watching his dinner be issued straight back up with barely any evidence of processing, so he gives up entirely. He’ll have to make do with the growling in his belly until they clear the worst of the storm.

            Lying down is, surprisingly, easier on his stomach than he imagines. There’s not much else to do, and it’s better to not be aware of his own hunger, so he tries to catch some sleep in his bunk. The first night out at sea had been hell on his shoulders, and it’s something about that constant rolling from side to side in the small bunk that puts strain on the worst spots, igniting memories that feel old already but are still far too fresh. Every tendon from his neck to his arms feels like a rubber band with the elastic spent. No plasticity; stretched beyond breaking point.

_Ardyn, why? Why does it have to hurt?_

He gets no reply.

            It’s all quiet in the berth hall; some folks over the far side are sleeping in their hammocks, and a couple more are pottering about, reordering their belongings, but most are topside, helping with the rigging or staring out at the horizon to stave off seasickness.

            The horizon hadn’t really helped him much, and besides, the view was too depressing. Turns out that an open skyline and a fresh breeze doesn’t tune out the world as much as you’d think. And then there’s the busy ship life to contend with.

            Knots and hitches, bends and whips. Sailing terminology makes him uncomfortable, as does the sight of the coils of rope lying unused about the deck. The smell of motor oil and grease permeates everything too, so at first he had sought to avoid it all by heading up to the quarterdeck, away from the supplies. Only the shouts of the navigator and the helmsman had interrupted him, and nobody seemed to mind him standing by the gunwale as long as he didn’t get in the way. But even still, there was the bustle, the activity. And something distasteful hit his mind every time the helmsman called out the degrees of steering. _Zero-one-zero to zero-one-nine, midships, left to two-eight-seven._ Too many numbers, too loud, too much to handle.

            Down here, it’s peaceful. Quiet. Safe.

            Funny how it’s in such moments that unpleasant things resurface with the strongest intensity. It doesn’t happen the way he expects.

            So he’s nestling down between the sheets, not bothering to remove his clothes because fuck, it’s cold. One of the traders that’s sharing their side of the bunk hall is busy pairing together socks, reordering clothing in the small duffel bag that passes for a suitcase. It’s an innocent enough activity, so Prompto’s ignoring him, but the man’s too chatty, has been since they boarded. That in itself is not unusual; many on board are exhibiting that overly-talkative vibe as a stress reaction.

            ‘Hell of a storm whippin’ up, eh? Though I get the sense if I don’t sort me stuff out now, it’ll be all over the place if the ship really pitches.’           

            It doesn’t seem like he’s expecting active participation, so Prompto just lets him talk. But the man stretches his neck so he can look over at Prompto all the more clearly where he lies on the bunk, curled up and clutching the pillow like it’s a comfort plush. It’s quite a vulnerable position, and he hadn’t given that enough thought on lying down.

            ‘Gettin’ some beauty sleep in, huh?’ Eyes shining bright in that wizened, lined face and somehow, despite the kindness, it’s off-putting. Prompto sighs inwardly — he doesn’t want interruptions, but he can’t exactly be flat-out rude to someone who, technically, hasn’t done anything wrong — and he meets the man’s eyes, smiles a little awkwardly, responds.

            ‘Yeah, well, topside doesn’t really do much for my stomach, y’know.’

            It sounds like the man says _Aww._ And all of a sudden he’s too close. Standing by the bunk, benevolent face gazing down upon Prompto’s and his hand is reaching.

            ‘You don’t need beauty sleep.’

            The colour drains from Prompto’s face and he’s milliseconds away from pulling his gun on the man. Then, a shadow over by the bulkhead entrance. Gladio, come to check on him.

            The man never reaches Prompto’s cheek. The gun never needs to materialise. He turns, and waves to Gladio. ‘Feelin’ a bit peaky too? Can’t say I blame you — real bastard of a storm, this one.’ His tone is utterly jovial and it confuses Prompto immensely. Has he even realised he’s being inappropriate? Creepy?

            Maybe not. But Prompto’s stomach is lurching. He’s so confused. It hurts, it physically _hurts_ , it’s all clenching in around his abdomen and he needs to escape.

            Gladio makes some passing comment to the guy, and it’s like he hasn’t even noticed things are a bit off.

            Was it all in Prompto’s head? Was this just normal behaviour? Perhaps he’s expected to just take it.

            Saliva’s clogging up his airways and he struggles up from the bunk, trying to sort his throat out without being too loud, without attracting, oh, what was it Ardyn said, at the start of it all … the wrong sort of attention.

            Bit late for that.

            ‘Hey, Prom, found you some antacid tablets. C’mon up to the galley, the cook said you can have some.’

            Relief washes over Prompto, and as much as he feels he doesn’t deserve this mercy, he follows Gladio hastily out of the berth hall.

 

The tablet helps a little, but his insides are still burning by the time he makes it topside.

He heads to the foredeck this time, because nobody’s hanging around there. All the activity is on the main deck and further back, where the navigator and the helmsman are stationed. Here, there’s space to himself, space to think, space to deal with the poison threading through his body. And, being up near the front, he suffers more salt spray than anywhere else on the ship, but it doesn’t matter, it’s worth the isolation.

            The ship pitches severely and one second his eyes are on the clouds, the next he’s staring at dark water. The pitching continues, back and forth, and he feels an inordinate amount of rage at the endless ocean.

            He’s sick of things toying with him. He’s sick of feeling so small against something so much greater.


	10. X. STAZIONE: Spogliato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't drink on board during a storm, kids.

 

That evening, in the mess, Prompto drinks. Gladio and Ignis won’t find him, not for the next few hours at least. And for very good reason: Ignis needs to shower, so Gladio’s offered to help.

            Prompto’s staying clear of the showers. They’re communal, and besides, he can strip-bathe in the small toilet cubicle if he really needs to. But he’d rather not think about it. It’s making him fidget. He knows there’s too much to clean and here, he can’t do it properly.

            There’s a disgusting part of him that thinks hey, maybe if he doesn’t shower, he’ll be far too off-putting for Mr. Beauty Sleep in the bunk hall to try anything, anyways. Not that he’s planning on going back to his bunk for a while, but still, the sentiment stands.

            And, yeah, there’s the photos resting on his camera, waiting for an idle gaze to be turned their way, waiting for attention to fill the downtime. But he can’t do it; the notion of passing the time thumbing through them — as if such pretty pictures only exist to satisfy his boredom — makes him feel ill at ease, and besides, he’s not sure he would be able to contain his grief when he reaches the shots with Noctis in.

            He could always go back up topside and take some fresh photos, maybe try and capture some of the grim desperation so inherent in life at sea. But the storm’s raging too hard, and he’s already far too tense to trust himself on the slippery decks. He still can’t shake the guilty feeling, either. Wouldn’t want to attract attention.

            So what Prompto does is he drinks. He drinks until the side of his jaw turns numb, and that feels nice. He stops when he’s feeling so lightheaded he knocks his glass over the swaying countertop, then he drinks some more. He’s not paying much attention to what brand of poison he’s taking; all that matters is it’s clear as crystal and sharp as battery acid and strong enough to make the edges comfortably fuzzy.

            His face must be looking as stormy as the seas outside, because nobody down in the mess bothers him the whole evening. He’s never been happier.

            Of course, he doesn’t get off scot-free. He should have expected so. Should have known. And it happens like it happened before, with the crack of swamp-soaked branches and whispers in the dark.

            To begin, he’s in the mess until it’s gone midnight, and he’s the only one left. The others all have tottered off towards their bunks, and eventually, when his vision blurs too much, when he runs out of things to avoid thinking about, he does the same. He’s hardly aware of where he’s going, although his capacity to become incredibly alert when passing the overly-friendly man’s bunk surprises him. Like he’s watching his careful footsteps from above, stunned by his own sudden catlike grace, a grace that dissipates the instant he hits his own bunk, knocking a foot against the porthole clumsily. His stomach’s rolling in time with the waves, and he prays he won’t be sick, that he won’t need to make an emergency bolt for the bathroom. He closes his eyes, and he tries to force sleep into the drunken haze. He tells himself everything can be good, and kind, and soft again.

            It’s here, in the night, that the nøkk visits him, hanging off the cabin ceiling like kelp from a barrel. Its face is a familiar collage of shadow and writhing strands of what passes for hair, and its eyes are as haunting as the small lamps the crew have set up to light the way around the ship at night.

            This time he sees no point in avoiding its gaze. They know each other anyway. His mouth starts to move — he wants to ask how, why is it here? He doesn’t sense Ardyn around, and how can it be here without Ardyn? But such questions are pointless, wasted on a creature so utterly elemental. He holds his tongue.

            The nøkk seems curious. It offers to touch him, and when he says no, it shrieks in that atonal hiss and plunges its tendrils down his throat until it has seeped its essence into every free space in his body.

 

He wakes up sobbing quietly, but the ship’s creaking and the water’s lapping covers his sounds from the others. It must be the early hours, by the fact that everyone in the hall still lies dead to the world. The ceiling is bare above him. His mouth is empty.      

            Prompto twists the blankets between strained hands, and wishes he would be visited by something kinder. Gods, how he misses Pryna. That little dog was a ray of light, even after death, and she’d visited him before, hadn’t she? Up in the snowy mountains, after Ardyn. After the fall.

            It’s at this point that he becomes aware he’s really quite ill from the alcohol, but he won’t get up from his bunk, not while the man who called him beautiful dozes mere metres away. It was a wonder he didn’t wake anyone getting back to his bunk, and he’s reluctant to try it again. Instead, he swallows down whatever comes up, and curls up into foetal position and waits.

            After a while, he stops twisting the blankets and instead bunches them up, holds the fabric in a ball to his chest, pretends its Pryna’s fur nuzzling into him. His sleep remains stilted and shattered when it comes, but at least this time the daemon does not return to steal more pieces of his soul.

 

Prompto greets the morning with a choke. His throat is raw from the alcohol, and it’s given him a cold. His voice is deeper as a result; he finds this out when he splashes cold water on his face, scowls at his reflection in the small toilet cubicle mirror, and says ‘Fuck off.’

            He sounds like Ardyn, but angrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This series is all I seem capable of writing right now. The other multi-chapter fics just aren't quite coming yet.


	11. XI. STAZIONE: Padre, perdona loro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On forgiveness

 

The ship doesn’t go all the way to Galdin Quay. It stops at a port near the Wennath Delta. Better trade routes to Ravatogh and Lestallum, apparently. Everyone’s fine with this, especially Gladio, who murmurs something about the rocks round the Cape Caem peninsula. Wouldn’t want to be stranded on them in the dark, ship radar notwithstanding.

            Prompto is happier than most to be off the ship, but he makes sure nobody would know by looking. He weedles his way out of an awkward goodbye hug from the man who called him beautiful by pretending to get an urgent call come through on his mobile. It’s a pathetic excuse; there’s not even a bar of signal on the thing. But he yoinks it out of his pocket and sprints down the pier anyway, holding it to his ear and saying _yeah, it’s me, you okay, dude?_

            He then stops, pretends to listen to the non-existent voice on the other end, and realises he’s been talking as if he were talking to Noctis. The grief swallows him, real and palpable, and he has to walk all the way down to the far end of the port so he can risk raising a hand to his eyes and dabbing away the moisture there without anyone noticing.

            He’s far too cold, and he feels hollow and tense, as though his grief is a weakness, as though it’s the excuse the shadows need to catch him unawares. And as he thinks this, there’s a creaking noise just off to the side that surprises him. It’s in the low and bristling shrubs, and he flinches, eyes darting around, but it’s just the raking call of a crow.

 

He jumps at shadows the entire way back to Lestallum. They’ve hitched a ride with a hunter, and the truck stumbles its way over potholes and roadside debris. Nobody can catch a wink of sleep, but it’s a damn sight better than the listing of the ship, and he’s fenced in either side by Ignis and Gladio and, despite the jostling, that seems somehow secure.

            The hunter they’re hitching with plays soulful country music: a medley of steel and acoustic guitar drifts up into the dusky air. Lyrics all mournful but at the same time, enlightening. If that isn’t too pretentious for him to think. The mood in the truck is meditative, and it makes Prompto’s heart surge. That, and the darkened sky, the barely-visible rocky outcrops in the distance — it makes him imagine they’re in a completely alien landscape, bereft of familiarity on all sides, hurtling into somewhere new and, despite the darkness, hopefully devoid of the problems they’re running from.

            He knows there’s only going to be more problems to greet them when they reach Lestallum, but right now, he can imagine it’s limitless.

            Hoping for better things only lasts so long, however, and the further inland they get, the more heavy the chill in the air, the less romantic the moody dark sky becomes. He needs a way to pass the time, because his mind is too distractible, and when his phone runs out of battery, he turns to the discarded newspaper on the truck floor. The truck’s interior light, which is more than enough for him to see the text on the paper, is a sallow gold colour and something about that — _don’t think about it, just don’t_ — is making him feel ill, so he needs a diversion. There’s a sudoku puzzle on the back page, half-filled in, and he studies it for a while before Gladio notices, and thinks to ask the driver for a pen.

            When he’s passed an old biro that’s scratchy and near-exhausted of ink, he’s grateful. He was feeling too self-conscious to ask.

            One and two and five, six, seven… He just needs a three and a — what’s that sound?

            Scratching.

            His ears are itching.

            A moment’s pause and — _get it out, stop the sensation, come on, not like you can’t move your arms here —_ he panics, his arms are a little caught up where he’s wedged in beside Gladio and Ignis and he has to shuffle himself about to raise his hand to his ear.

            For lack of a better implement, he sticks the end of the pen in his ear and attends to the itch, huffing a little as he does so because it’s not quite enough, and —

            A hand pulls his wrist away. Ignis.

            ‘That’s quite enough, Prompto.’

            All at once, a burning shame floods his skin.

            He wants to say he’s sorry, but asking for forgiveness is too great a task. Not that he’s read all that much of the Cosmogony — he never was one for listening to authority — but what scraps he picked up over time never gave off the impression the Six were all that willing to forgive someone who could not forgive others. And there was a lot he could not let slide.

            He’s trying not to think about Ardyn and the Covenant, about the dream, memory, vision, whatever the hell it was, about how being in proximity of something so terribly unclean made oneself unclean by association. He’s trying to avoid it, but failing miserably, because it all ties in so uncomfortably close to the idea of forgiveness.

            Was Noctis not holy enough? Was that why the Crystal consumed him?

            Ardyn had certainly seemed vindicated by that moment.

            Fuck, the thought makes his stomach hurt.

            All this in the space of a few seconds and Ignis is still holding his wrist, still facing him, still waiting for a response.

            ‘Uh… Yeah.’

            This seems sufficient for Ignis, who pats his wrist comfortingly and goes back to resting against the truck wall. It’s a relief, because he wouldn’t have been able to let himself say sorry.

            So for the rest of the trip, he shuts up, he makes a show of using the pen on the newspaper and only on the newspaper, and he finishes his sudoku puzzle with the numbers resounding in his head in silent cacophony.


	12. XII. STAZIONE: Nelle tue mani consegno il mio spirito

 

Lestallum gives everyone far too much opportunity to talk. There’s a lot to do when they get there, between sorting out places to stay and helping with the refugee effort, and none of it is fun, although all of it is necessary. It takes them days to acclimatise, at first, and the worst thing, perhaps, is that nobody wants to talk with them beyond the basics. War and dark skies make for self-serving attitudes all too rapidly, and there’s more than a whiff of a notion that the three of them are responsible for the Prince’s fate, that they somehow are the cause of Noctis failing to return from Niflheim.

            But still, the trio are keen to do what they can.

            Gladio is taken away on supply line duty pretty quickly, and Ignis spends most his time planning with Holly. That leaves Prompto in a weird place, where he’s wanted, but not for the reasons he’d like, as ever he seems to be, these days. His technical expertise means he’s asked for a lot down at the power plant, and the last thing he wants to be doing is fixing up broken machines. He tries, at first, but he can’t keep it up.

            After the third no-show, they stop asking him.

            He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, and staying at home gets him stir-crazy. Not going out at least once a day makes the walls draw that little bit tighter in around him, so he goes out wandering. He stays away from the crowds but not too far away. Not far away enough to get cornered alone, and he won’t make the same mistake twice. He’s just far enough to cut the chatter in his ears before it turns to a rising tide, and he takes to watching the cloudy skies, looking for that greenish glow that belies where the sun ought to be, many kilometres beyond the miasma.

            Nobody knows if the plasmodia in the air will infect the lungs, so people take to wearing masks when out on the streets.

            Prompto doesn’t. He’s not being a daredevil about it, he just doesn’t feel the need. Worse has entered his throat and he’s survived. He walks with his neck bared, and the dust gets in his hair, on his collar, and he straight up ignores it. Watching the sky like a ritual whenever he can, and he keeps doing it because he thinks he’s going to see something special, some revelation, some way to get closer to the gods, perhaps. Some way to escape reality. Perhaps he ought to get down on bended knee.

            Such fickle creatures enjoy supplication, after all.

            And it’s in this fashion that his mind frequently grows too busy, chattering away from a million different angles, as many points as there are fragments of dust in his hair, and before he knows it he has to get back indoors, to the relative safety of his small apartment.

            It’s a studio flat, with barely enough space to stretch his arms out between the kitchen and the sleeping area, but it’s okay, he doesn’t want to do that anyway. It’s a damn sight larger than most of the places the other refugees get given, so he doesn’t mind it.

            This is luxury, these days.

            And so, in the lap of luxury, he wilts, and his mind carries on its outward spiral, all noise and clamour and frenzy behind his calm, expressionless face. Always so close to saying the words, always so close to telling the truth, and gods, how he wants to scream it.

            He considers talking to Ignis, only he chickens out every time. It’s too great a subject to broach, and it’s better to drink the questions away, because even the ordinary things are difficult. He can barely face the sour smell of the bathroom, the poky shower head with its uneven hot-cold water supply, and the first real shower after he’d gotten back had taken a whole day, filled with fits and starts, which begs the question - if he can’t look at his own flesh, how can he bear to say anything aloud?

           

His subdued behaviour doesn’t stop Ignis from visiting, though. The man’s getting better at navigating his environment with the walking stick, and his eyes are less necessary than they were before now that the rest of the world is in a permanent twilight. He seems to be managing.

            Today Ignis has brought him a sudoku puzzle book. It’s got dirt stains on the front cover, and looks like it’s been picked up at the flea market outside Partellum street.

            ‘Gladio helped me get hold of it. Thought you’d appreciate it.’

            ‘Yeah. I do. Thanks.’

            ‘Are you settling in okay?’

            ‘Yeah. It’s small, but… cosy, y’know?’

            He tries to crack a smile, then remembers Ignis wouldn’t see it anyway.

            ‘Gladio wanted to know if you’d be joining him in training.’

            ‘Uh…’

            What should he say? _Sorry, Gladio, I don’t wanna look at your amber eyes right now?_ Make him feel bad over an accident of appearance he can’t help? Admitting the similarity would hurt Gladio more than was fair, and he can’t handle that.

            _You do want to get stronger, though, don’t you? Just in case he comes back round again._

_And you know how he loves to see you try._

Prompto stops just short of saying _shut up_. All that comes out is a quick hiss of the breath, and that does not go unnoticed by Ignis.

            ‘Please don’t feel pressured,’ Ignis says. ’Nobody’s forcing you to do anything.’

            He’s grateful, but he doesn’t know how to express that. The beginnings of words leave his mouth only to fizzle into nothing.

            Ignis takes his leave. Another parting comment, a reminder that Prompto can call him any time he needs. It’s appreciated, it always is, but Prompto is determined never to let it come to that. He doesn’t want to end up being saved a second time.

 


	13. XIII. STAZIONE: Deposto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's really hard to keep secrets from Gladio. Especially where drink is involved.

  
The street bar outside the Partellum Market works much better for Prompto than the dingy taphouse near the hotel. Here, he can drink all evening without the constraint of doors and walls. He can bail quickly if things turn sour.

            Or so he thinks.

            It’s on one of the nights Gladio shows up that a simple mistake is made. Prompto is at the bar, testing the limits of his gut with a string of whiskey sours and some bad tequila, hardly feeling the cool night breeze across his bared shoulders, when Gladio rocks in all cocksure and grinning.

            He keeps as casual a face as he can manage.

            ‘What’s up, big guy?’

            Gladio takes the stool beside him, orders a beer real quick, then lowers those amber eyes his way. It’s terrifying, but the fear soon passes, and he masters his nerves.

            ‘Guess who just set up a power cable to Cauthess Depot?’ Gladio’s smarmy-ass voice helps ground him even more. Good old Gladio, same as ever. All logistics and planning and getting shit done. Okay, yeah, he can do this.

            ‘Oh yeah? Dude, you’re on a roll.’ He _is_ excited about Gladio’s news, but he’s already worried it’s not coming through as sufficient, and that makes him overact it. Luckily, Gladio doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t react badly, at any rate.

            ‘Gonna go for Old Lestallum next. Folks out there really need us.’

            Prompto nods. Looks up at the street lights, burnished orange against the clouded green-grey night. He thinks about the people far outside Lestallum’s protective walls, holding their own against the encroaching darkness.

            ‘It’s a job well done,’ he settles for saying, because he doesn’t have anything more meaningful to add. None of the words in his head can match the way he feels.

            Gladio seems to accept this, and he takes another swig of beer, smiles.

            ‘Yeah, so, how’s it going at the power plant?’

            ‘I, uh… took a break, for a bit. Couldn’t focus right, y’know?’ Maybe Gladio doesn’t know. He feels guilty about not stepping up to do his duty, and he knows that people around town must be talking about him. ‘I just… I don’t wanna lose focus and damage something. Hurt someone.’ He exhales, looks away, adds ‘I know that sounds like an excuse.’

            Gladio grunts, but doesn’t admonish him. They sit together in silence, drinking down their poison. The night feels colder than before. A strange kind of solidarity, the sort the two of them find between swigs from the bottle and their own memories.

            Prompto finishes his whiskey sour and tries to decide whether that’s enough for the evening. If he stops here, he might be too lucid to avoid the dark corners when he falls asleep. Better by far if he falls into heavy, dreamless sleep.

            So he orders, and while he waits for the barman to serve up the next one, he realises just how tired he is. He takes the opportunity to stretch, and he’s not thinking. Arms up above his head, and his vest slips just a little too much.

            ‘Prompto, what the hell is that?’

            Gladio’s tone catches him off-guard. Immediately he’s on the defensive, muscles twitching his shoulders back down into obedience. Gladio’s looking pointedly at his collarbone, at the bandage just poking into view beneath it.

            All at once he’s awash with shame.

            ‘It’s, uh, it’s just, it’s from those daemons, you know, attacking the town the other week?’ That had been an unpleasant evening for everyone involved. Daemon nests bubbling up as if from nothing, and hordes of imps and goblins and —gods, the _spiders_ —threatening to overrun the city’s only exit. He had been so rusty with his gun that night, so it wasn’t too unbelievable for Gladio to think he’d just slipped up a little. Everyone had been so busy killing daemons that it could have happened then, and nobody would have noticed.

            Gladio’s brow creases. With concern or doubt, he can’t tell.

            ‘Lemme have a look.’

            ‘No!’ He flinches away, then controls himself. ‘I mean. Uh. It’s really not…’

            ‘C’mon.’ Gladio reaches out and again, Prompto stiffens. ‘That really doesn’t look good.’

            He’s right. It doesn’t look all that great. Been weeks, no, months, and still the skin around the bandage is all veined and bruised. Healing is happening, but it’s slow. Prompto tugs his vest back over it. Thinks about firm fingers pressing into the wound. _Something to remember me by_. And just like that, no amount of drink in the world is enough.

            It must have become translated in his face, because Gladio sighs and studies his own drink all too hard.

            ‘It’s something Ardyn did, isn’t it?’

            The name is so softly-spoken, even coming from Gladio’s usually-brash voice, but still it hits him like a freight train, barrelling into his nerves and crushing him under its weight. It frustrates him, alongside the fear, because it’s Ardyn, always, in the small things. In the sediment at the bottom of his glass. Ardyn, at the edges of the street bar’s canvas awnings. Ardyn, in the eyes of his friend. Ardyn, beneath the bandage that holds his ripped skin together.

            His silence is enough confirmation.

            It does a weird thing to Gladio’s eyebrows, this fact. Makes him look years older than he is.

            ‘Just promise me one thing,’ Gladio says eventually.

            Prompto’s fingers grip the edge of the bar stool beneath his thighs. He holds position, and waits.

            ‘Go see someone about it.’

            ‘Yeah. ‘Kay, sure.’

            ‘You better.’

            He doesn’t like how much that sounds like a threat. Gladio’s too large and far too capable. It really wouldn’t take much. And shit, now his skin’s ice cold and his nerves are alight and the only thing stopping him shivering is the fear that something so noticeable will make everything worse.

            Gladio looks so stern. Looks like he’s judging him, and he feels the full force of it like it’s a touch flush against his skin.

            Gladio’s just worried, he tells himself. It’s not the big guy’s fault that it manifests like this. Not his fault it looks so similar to anger. Prompto thinks back to that night at the Leville, after the Vesperpool, how long it had taken for him to realise that Gladio wasn’t pissed off with him for what happened.

            He must have gotten stuck in his own thoughts for much longer than he intended, because there’s a tapping noise and yeah, there, it’s Gladio, tapping the bottom of his pint glass softly on the bar top. Something the big guy does when he’s feeling awkward. He’s still looking at him curiously, but he’s clearly making the effort to appear softer, less threatening.

            ‘You gonna be okay?’

            What Gladio clearly means to say is ‘you need help getting home?’

            He shrugs him off.

            ‘Yeah. Thanks, though.’

            He hopes it sounds like he appreciates it, because he does. And with that, he takes his leave, keeping his composure long enough to reach his apartment without any problems.

            Strange, how he doesn’t fear the shadows in Lestallum’s long alleys any more. He pities more the poor soul that might catch him by surprise, because he knows he’s on edge and he knows that makes his filter for danger low. A few nights ago, he pulled his gun on a stranger, and whether they originally bumped into him on accident or not he would probably never find out. He doesn’t want a repeat.

            So he walks as fast and as sure-footed as he can, and every step feels like a small relief. For a time back there he was strung up, exposed again, laid bare in embarrassing injury for his friend to see, and it had felt worse than death. But now he has been taken down from the cross, and has both feet on the ground; safe, sane, solid ground. He just needs it to stay that way.

 

 


	14. XIV. STAZIONE: Nel Sepolcro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storm's coming

 

Prompto wakes in the night, and because it is dark outside so much of the time now, it’s hard to tell that it is night-time at all. He could be trapped in some no-space, for all he knows, unable to push his way out of the small cocoon of a side-reality he’s found himself in.

            The thought makes him panic, and within seconds he’s up and tugging the covers off his sweat-sticky body.

            He needs to know what time it is. He needs to know so desperately and the lack of certainty does uncomfortable things to his nerves, makes his arms itch, and the soles of his feet.

            But time is something he doesn’t have, something he probably doesn’t deserve. The hissing that accompanies this off-kilter reality rises in tone until it’s a screech, and there, from the edge of his field of view a shadow moves. Tendrils that could be hair, could be bracken, could be seaweed. The smell of brine hits the air, sour and spoiled.

            It’s in front of him now.

            He knows this as surely as he knows Ignis would tell him it’s all in his head. There; crouched at the end of his bed, its eyes yellow in the dark, like discs of metal coins. It’s the gaze that steals dreams away, turns them into something rotten. Poor creature can’t help being what it is, though.

            So he sets a firm boundary. Hand out in front of him where he sits on the bed.  He’s on the one side, the daemon sits on the other, and it obeys.

            He whispers, ‘Will you give it back? That piece of what you took?’

            It growls: a low, guttural sound that sets the hairs on his arms bristling.

            Of course not. He should have known. It was a price paid, after all, no matter how much choice he had lacked in the matter.

            That piece of his soul, perhaps it has formed a thread that keeps them connected. He wants to ask the nøkk, _is this why you’re here now?_ He wants to know why the daemon can get past the barriers and the guards in the town, but the instant he thinks about saying anything more aloud, it seems stupid, it makes him feel too naked.

            The nøkk cocks its head, slowly, curiously.

            _Han kommer_ , it says in that throaty voice, and it’s near-on melodic, it sounds like an enchantment. The ancient words cast Prompto back to the vision of Solheim, and at once he is surrounded by the heady musk of the temple and the evening mist of the Vesperpool. He’s aware that the daemon and he are both sitting on his bed, in his poky little apartment in Lestallum, but at the same time, they’re back around that small campfire in the Risorath basin, with clear night skies and the silhouettes of trees and distant, small flakes of snow gently falling.

            He knows what the nøkk means, and he doesn’t want to say the name. He knows this is the calm before the storm, and he keeps his hand held out, a plea for nothing more to happen. The daemon shuffles, makes to leave, but before it slithers off the bed and back into the shadows it reaches out a tendril, curls it around Prompto’s outstretched hand. The touch is tender, it makes his chest heave and his eyes water. By the time the nøkk has left him to the darkness, he is crying.

 

So in the morning, against the splitting background thud of a hangover, he decides to do as Gladio suggested. He heads out into the Lestallum streets, hazy and warm already with the clustering bodies of people. The town doesn’t need the sun to keep its sweltering nature.

            First he finds the general practitioner. He already knows where the office is — what with Ignis’s need for creams on his tightened, burned skin, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s been there.

            Lucky for him, they’re not that busy.

            ‘It’s an old wound,’ he says numbly, when the doctor peels the bandages away. The bandages themselves are relatively fresh: Prompto’s not being doing a terrible job of re-dressing. But it’s worse than it perhaps needs to be, because he hates to have to focus on it for too long, and little oversights are the compromise.

            ‘How did it happen?’

            ‘Gralea,’ he says, and he doesn’t need to say anything more. She gives him this solemn look and starts examining him.

            A few moments later, the doctor tuts, and Prompto’s instantly alert. That’s the sound that something’s wrong. He looks down, doubling his chin with the effort, and yeah, the doctor’s pointing in a circular motion at the edges of the wound. Not touching, just inspecting. And Prompto sees what the doctor has noticed.

            It’s not merely scabbing of blood and plasma, like he had assumed, it’s a blackening of the flesh. Not much, only around the edges of the wound, but still. When he really looks at it, when he really takes it in, his heart’s thumping.

            ‘I’m going to need to cut away some of this,’ the doctor says, and Prompto doesn’t really register what’s happening until he sees the tool cabinet unlock. A flash of silver and his eyes widen. Doctor notices instantly, and tries to calm him down. ‘It’s okay. It’s a pretty normal procedure.’ She smiles, and Prompto wishes she wouldn’t, because the kindest of smiles hide the worst intentions, don’t they?

            Ninety percent, the doctor means well, so he lets her slice into his flesh with the medical scalpel. She tells him he won’t feel it much, because it’s necrotised, it’s dead, the nerves aren’t on high alert there, and she’s right. It’s a disgusting sensation, all the same, and he looks away. Winces a little at the introduction of antiseptic because yeah, the living flesh beneath still has feeling.

            She tells him he’s lucky no shrapnel has remained embedded in the wound, and advises he give it time to heal. _Take it easy today, okay?_

He nods, pays his fees, and continues on his way. Gladio will be happy.

 

In a small crate at the flea market he finds a watch. It’s ticking away, and it seems more or less like the time is correct. Close to midday. He picks it up, examines its brassy lustre, its outdated design and it’s really quite beautiful. The second hand’s moving and he becomes entranced, watches it tick over the minute.

            He feels like he could see it do that over and over, get stuck watching time go on. It’s comforting. It’s like coming up for air. In the end, he buys the watch, and he probably pays the trader far too much for it, but that’s fine. Another little piece of stability in the calm before the storm.

 


	15. XV. STAZIONE: La Rizurrezione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think Ardyn *wasn't* going to appear, did you?

 

It’s on an inoffensive, rainy morning that Ardyn finally decides to show up. Walks up to him while he’s making coffee in his poky studio apartment in Lestallum. This is the morning Prompto has decided to go back to the power plant, to offer his services once again as a mechanic to the overworked staff there, and the fact that his own coffee machine has started to break isn’t exactly filling him with confidence. He needs to whack the contraption on the side to get it to work, and because the sound is too loud — he’s woken up from nightmares again and his head is a mess — he’s closed his eyes temporarily, wincing, trying to shut it out. When he un-scrunches them again he’s met with long swirling fabrics and a lackadaisical stare. Ardyn, lounging by the countertop. The nøkk told him this would happen, and now here he is, watching the machine grind coffee beans into pulp with interest, seeming so at odds with the mundane, domestic setting.

            He catches Prompto staring at him in fright and smiles. When he speaks, he sounds soft and faintly amused.

            ‘You may summon your gun, if it would make you feel more at ease.’

            Prompto glowers, stomach retching at the familiar phrase. He was doing that anyway.

            And so he summons the pistol, and the moves are a little rusty, but the weight is now back and familiar in his hand. He’s shaking as he raises it, and — honestly now, there’s little point in turning it toward Ardyn, is there? — he doesn’t stop until he feels the cool pressure against his own temple.

            At the back of his head, there’s another voice that belongs to Ardyn. _‘If you choose to pull the trigger…’_ That runs on repeat while the Ardyn in front of him watches quietly, sternly, begging the unasked question.

            _Is this really the way out, Prompto?_

It might be. Gods be damned, it might be.

            He spends slow, heavy seconds fixed by Ardyn’s glare. The silence speaks whole chapters and yet, even in the seemingly-endless moment it feels like there’s no time to consider why Ardyn is here, how he got in. He never heard the door open, he never felt a draft in the air, and this doesn’t make much sense. But he’s captivated, held hostage by the spectre before him, and it’s a rapid-fire succession of _do it_ and _don’t you dare_ and _fuck you_ and _are you even strong enough_ and _I care, Prompto. I care._

            In the end, Prompto’s exhale is the final verse. He lets the gun fall.

            Ardyn smirks, because of course, he knew what would happen. He rests a hand on Prompto’s shoulder and Prompto is so numb he doesn’t even feel it. ‘That’s better. There’s so much more for you to do yet.’

            Damn his voice. Damn his sugar and damn his salt. And damn the way it sticks itself to the walls of Prompto’s veins, the way it coats him in its soft lies and the way it makes him shiver.

            It would be too easy for him to sound angry in his response. Instead he speaks blandly, as if his words are dyed in sepia. ‘You didn’t come here to give me a pep talk.’

            ‘Believe me, I’m not here for long,’ Ardyn purrs, and his head’s all angled so he catches the light from the ceiling in an eerie fashion. All outlines and hollow eyes. He’s a vision, a saint, a nightmare.

            Prompto can’t quite figure out if Ardyn is real or not. It probably doesn’t matter either way. He’s used to the uncertainty around the man, so much so that it’s easier to just assume reality.

            Ardyn must have shown up for a purpose, but Prompto knows better than to ask what he wants. That’s not his place. He settles for watching as Ardyn explores the kitchen countertop. It feels like the man is judging his crockery choices, and that, in itself, is so bizarre he can’t help but feel violated.

            There’s also the inexplicable urge to make excuses for the poor décor — apocalypse, and all that, makes it hard to furnish a place right, and he really should have swept the floor — but he ignores that. If he will be judged, then so be it.

            Ardyn wheels back to face him, eyes blazing brilliant like the sun that no longer graces their skies. He sees right through to his soul, just like he always does, and he says once more the words that stick with him, the words that refuse to loosen their hold.

            ‘One day we shall both get our wish. But not today.’

            Prompto wants to glower but he can’t. He’s tired. He’s upset. So he just lets his mouth tug downward into a frown while he stares at the mug, watching the dark liquid swirl.

            Ardyn’s hand ghosts along his. Again, it’s so light, so spectral, that he doesn’t feel it, and he knows Ignis will tell him later that this is all imagined. Probably doesn’t matter either way. He focusses on the hand touching his own, watches the index finger stroke into the hollow between his finger and thumb, feels the ache of memories that he wishes were older.

            ‘Now drink up,’ Ardyn says. ‘It wouldn’t do to let it go cold.’

            He sniffs. No point in shying away from the touch. In a weird way, it’s a relief; it makes more sense than anything else that’s happened to him since being rescued, and he wants to cry at this thought.

            And as for the coffee, yeah, he should probably drink it. No urge now to add milk, and there’s no way he can stomach sugar to sweeten the ritual. He knocks it back and it’s so, so bitter.

            The taste lingers on his tongue.

            The liquid paints his insides black.

            He’s ready to face the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--------
> 
>  
> 
> this is not the end


End file.
